


Repeat Performance

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-16
Updated: 2007-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For ds_snippets, prompt: "fret."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeat Performance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nos4a2no9 for late-night cheerleading and beta reading on short notice. All remaining errors are mine.

When Ray first learned that Fraser could play the guitar, he thought wow, jeez, it's almost like he's _normal_. Somewhere along the line, between the whole "raised by librarians" thing and countless stories about the tribes of the Shim-shamma-lamma-ding-dong, Ray'd got the impression that Fraser's life before Chicago was mostly characterized by Inuit rituals and … reading encyclopedias, maybe. Or whittling. It wasn't _cool_ though, and while Ray knew Fraser was good at lots of things -- jumping through windows, for example, or tracking a bank robber across Chicago based on the flavor of his _shoes_ \-- the unfortunate fact was that Fraser was really kind of _un-hip_, and learning that he could play guitar was … impressive. If Ray had figured Fraser for having musical talent, he would have guessed that Fraser was an expert at the _banjo_, maybe, or the oboe -- nothing like the guitar.

As it turned out, the only songs Fraser really knew were country and old folk ballads about people who were born a hundred years ago and died in shipwrecks, and also something that sounded like the Kinks but turned out to be just Fraser tuning Ray's old guitar, which had been left in his hall closet for years. Which might have been a let-down, except:

Fraser, no matter what honky-tonk death rags he was singing, looked _damn good_ with a guitar on his lap, the strap over his shoulder, his fingers strong and sure over the fret board. Even if the sounds that came out of it made Ray feel like finding the nearest sloop and throwing himself overboard, the sight of Fraser with a guitar, hands knowing just where to push and just where to strum, _did things_ to Ray.

He wanted a repeat performance.

***

The second time Ray got to see Fraser play was at his apartment during a ball game. Fraser had spotted the guitar leaning against a chair and asked, _May I, Ray?_ like Ray hadn't left the guitar there and asked Fraser to come over and watch the game for just that very reason. Fraser had offered to move to another room so as not to disturb the television, and Ray might've lost his cool just a bit with how fast he told Fraser not to bother, to just sit there, because he wouldn't disturb Ray with his playing _at all_.

So the second time, Ray was supposed to be watching the Cubs get their asses handed to them, but he let his eyes keep drifting over to Fraser at the other end of the couch.

"You know anything by the Stones?"

Fraser shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. "I'm afraid not, Ray." Then he glanced over, eyes bright. "You could teach me."

Ray ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nah, I haven't played since before I joined the force. I should've sold that thing years ago. Don't know why I didn't."

"Perhaps it had sentimental value to you."

Ray nodded. "Yeah. Sentimental."

Fraser plucked out a few notes, concentrating on his fingers. The shiny tip of his tongue crept out to wet his lower lip.

"I could --" Ray blurted, "--teach you. I mean, I remember a few things. If you wanted."

Fraser started to nod, didn't even get a whole nod out, but that was all Ray needed to slide over until his leg was almost touching Fraser's. He reached across Fraser's body and covered Fraser's fingers with his own.

***

The third time, Fraser caught him. Fraser had actually been catching him regularly since Ray'd started using him as his own personal guitar-playing soft-core porn, but this time Fraser cleared his throat.

"Ray …"

"What?" Ray asked, turning his attention back to the TV, heart pounding.

"Am I disturbing you? You keep looking this way. I'd be happy to stop playing."

Ray wavered. He considered telling Fraser that yeah, he was disrupting, and maybe they should put the guitar away -- someplace where Ray wouldn't have to think about Fraser touching it, strumming it, making it sing -- and go back to watching the game like regular guys.

Instead, Ray sighed. "You're not disturbing me." Except in the good way.

Fraser glanced down at his lap at the guitar. "Is there something wrong with my technique?"

Ray groaned. Yeah, thinking about Fraser's _technique_ was just what he needed.

"No, it's fine. You're really good. I … like watching you play."

Fraser was halfway between blushing and beaming. "Well, I have no formal training, of course --"

"No. I said I _like watching you play_. Maybe, uh, a little too much."

He gave Fraser a hard look and Fraser's eyes widened.

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.'"

Ray stared at the wall. No point in faking interest in the TV now. He was about to stand up when his knee fell under the warmth of a familiar hand.

"Ray," Fraser said, sounding strangled, "I _like_ watching you watch me play."

Ray shook his head. "Fraser, you don't get it."

"I _do_," he insisted, and to prove it, he leaned across the guitar, grabbed Ray by the shirt collar, and kissed him.

The guitar made a dull clunk as Ray shoved it out of the way and it hit the floor, but he didn't much care.


End file.
